


The Arrangement

by WayFish



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Casual Sex, Feelings, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, Lots of feelings., M/M, Non-Consensual Violence, One Night Stands, Probably not canon., Sex that becomes not casual.
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-09-10
Updated: 2013-07-19
Packaged: 2017-11-13 23:52:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 14
Words: 8,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/509117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WayFish/pseuds/WayFish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the fall; he didn't know what he had until it was taken away. Now Sherlock has to trust his friends to help him get back what he's lost. The Internet doesn't help. Oh, and, there are cats.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

  
“Oh god.”  
The image on the screen was grainy, but he could tell it was Ben by the tattoo scrawled along the edge of his collar bone. “Cleanse my heart. Give me the ability to rage correctly”. He was bound to a chair and his face was swollen and bloodied. A small man in an expensive suit entered the frame. His face wasn’t visible but Sherlock knew exactly who it was.  
 _“Didn’t see this coming, did you?”_  
 _The well dressed man giggled and waved to the camera_  
 _“Really, my man, you need to take better care of your toys. You just leave them lying around, anyone could pick them up. I hope you don’t mind. He just looked so… entertaining. So much potential…”_  
 _A hand stroked Ben’s cheek and he jerked away, twisting out of its reach. When the man grabbed for him again Ben gnashed his teeth and nearly snapped off one of his manicured fingers._  
 _“And so much fight in him! I think you’ve really underestimated this one.”_  
 _Moriarty laughed and snatched Ben up by his hair._  
 _“Now don’t you fret, I only want to borrow him. To get him back you’ll have to play my game. Good old fashioned Cops and Robbers. I’ll give you’re little sleuthy friends some clues and if they’re worth their weight in tax payer dollars they’ll find your toy in no time._  
 _There’s just one rule. You have to sit this game out. No heroics. No doing that thing you do. You’re the grieving party this time. So act like it. Be a good boy and answer their questions. All the information they need is in that pretty little head of yours. But don’t try to interfere. You know that Ill know if you do. Let the police do their job. Trust in the system, that sort of thing. I promise I won’t make it too hard for them. ”_  
The video ended. Lestrade shut the lid on his lap top.  
"A messenger dropped it off this morning.”  
“Oh my god.”  
“I take it that means you know him?”  
Lestrade had been under the impression that knew all the people Sherlock knew. Well not the obscure contacts and acquaintances, of course. But the people that mattered, the ones that were more than assets, that he cared about, that could be leveraged against him. And Lestrade could count them all on one hand. He realized for the first time what a solitary existence it must be.  
“Sherlock? Who is that boy?”  
“He’s no one.”  
“So you don’t know him? Not even his name?”  
“Its Ben. Bennett Theroux.”  
“You know his sir name but you didn’t know him? There's not time for this, Sherlock.”  
Sherlock didn’t answer. And Lestrade could see that he was retreating, blocking him out, pulling away.  
And this was it, Lestrade thought, this was the reason that Sherlock was alone. For all his brilliance and allure, for all the things that made people flock to him, Sherlock was forever just out of every ones reach.  
“You heard him Sherlock. Tell us what you know and we’ll find him.”  
Too smart. Too proud. Too above. Too beyond to touch. You could be someone and no one to Sherlock. But that didn’t get him closer to finding the boy in the video.  
Or maybe it did. Lestrade took a shot in the dark.“Was he your lover?”  
“Don’t,” Sherlock bit out. “Just don’t.”  
“If he is it’s…”  
“You should be out there looking for him,” he snapped. “Not interrogating me.”  
“But I need something to go on. Now tell me what you know or are you going to let you’re pride kill this boy?”  
Sherlock covered his face with his hands and lurched forward in his chair.  
“How could I let this happen?”  
His whole body shook with choked sobs. People had cried in his office, before. Hyperbolic-ally emotional witnesses. The bereaved. The wronged. Civilians. And usually he would push the box of Kleenex across the desk and settle in for the water works. But this was Sherlock Holmes. And the sight left Lestrade at a loss  
“You have to find him.”  
“We will. But I need more than this to go on.”  
“Ok,” He sniffed and scrubbed his face with his hands. “What do I need to do?”  
“He said you have all the information to find him. Start at the beginning.” Lestrade sighed. “How long have you known him?”


	2. Chapter 2

  
_“What do you mean you’re closed? You can’t be closed”_  
 _Sherlock was losing patience. He’d been on an unfruitful stake out for eight hours and he was starving. He’d had to pound on the door to even get inside and now this simpleton, a blond lanky young man, some waiter he vaguely recognized was refusing him service._  
 _“Well I’m sorry for the inconvenience, sir. You know what, I’ll call all the staff back in and we’ll get you whatever you need.”_  
 _Sherlock gave a sigh of relief. “Oh, well good...”_  
 _He rolled his eyes and Sherlock began, once again, to seethe. The young man had the audacity to laugh as he shrugged into his coat and wound a blue scarf around his neck._  
 _“Let me speak to Angelo.”_  
 _“He’s gone for the night.”_  
 _Another waiter, a short waif-ish girl waved to him as she bundled by in a large down coat. “Night. You locking up,” she asked, eyeing Sherlock._  
 _“I’ve got it taken care of. See you tomorrow.”_  
 _She gave him a warm smile and the bell on the door chimed as it swung shut behind her._  
 _“Can I at least speak to someone who’s not you,” Sherlock snapped._  
 _“I am now, officially, the last employee here. The chef is gone. There’s nothing I can do. I’m gunna’ have to ask you to leave.” He held open the door but Sherlock wouldn’t budge. “I mean it. You have to go or I’m calling the police.”_  
 _Sherlock huffed and begrudgingly stepped out into the cold. It was only September but it had started to snow. The young man snatched a bag of take out from a nearby table and followed him out._  
 _“What exactly do you expect me to do now?” Sherlock whined._  
 _“I don’t know.” He laughed again and locked the front door of the restaurant. “You look young, affluent, and capable. I’m sure you’ll figure something out.”_  
 _It was starting to snow._  
 _“But this is the only place to get good Italian in the whole city!”_  
 _“I will give the owner your regards.” He turned to leave, then stopped as if he’d changed his mind. A strange expression rose in his face and the young man studied him for a long moment. “I have a proposition for you. There’s enough pasta primavera here for two. Come up to my apartment and I’ll let you have some.”_  
 _It was Sherlock’s turn to laugh. “I don’t really have time for that sort of thing. I’m in the middle of a case and my work is-“_  
 _Again, the young man was laughing. He took a step forward and grabbed Sherlock by the collar. “I’ve heard you give that speech before. Heard a few people give it, actually, ‘married to your work’. Well I’m not looking for marriage or a date or even a call back. Just some fun. I’m sure your mistress lets you have fun. At least once and a while.”_  
 _Before Sherlock could protest he was kissing him softly on the lips. It took him by surprise. What was even more shocking, Sherlock found himself leaning into it, kissed him back, curling his fingers in the stranger’s blond hair. And it was like falling. No, not just falling. It was like the fall. And it was strange but all he could think about was dying._  
 _He’d come so close to being over, and now it felt that way all the time. It wasn’t dread or irrational fear of death. He’d done the research and collated the data. It really could end any moment. He was just aware of it now, that it could be nearby, looming like a spectre that he didn’t believe in. And normaly he didn’t like what if questions. They never got him anywhere. Never got the the right answers. But of late they had been creeping into his consciousness. He inhaled the cold clean sweat cigarette smell of the blond boys hair and couldn't help but wonder; what if I never get another chance like this? What if I miss something? What if I regret it? What if I end and the last thing I think is that I should have said yes?_  
 _“Is that a yes?”_  
 _He’d never find out if he said no._  
 _“You live nearby?"_  
 _“Yeah, just around the corner.” He kissed Sherlock once more. “I’m Ben. Come on.”_


	3. Chapter 3

He called John first. And based on the muffled rush through the phone he was out the door and hailing a cab before Lestrade could say “Sherlock is in trouble.”  
The second call Lestrade made was to the family, or what little family he knew the boy had. The mother specifically. Collette “Lette” Theroux lived in Dallas Texas with “some sort of wealthy oil person” as Sherlock had bitterly put it, and hadn’t seen her son in nearly a decade. Bennett Theroux had been living in London, mostly on his own, since Mrs. Theroux and the oil tycoon sent him there for prep school. He’d gone state side to earn his MFA from NYU and moved back to London last year. She seemed none the less distraught when Lestrade informed her that her son had been kidnapped. As she wailed into the phone Lestrade peered out his open office door at Sherlock, sitting in his waiting room.  
He resembled a disaster area, still rain damp, and maudlin. The sad looking creature looked only vaguely like a shadow of the Sherlock that Lestrade knew and put up with. For all of his monstrously annoying whims, bad habits and inconsistencies he had become, in a strange way, a kind of reassuring constant in Lestrade’s life. In all of their lives, actually. It was a depressing thought. But one could always count on Sherlock to do something reckless or not say thank you or demean the staff or bark orders at everyone, and show up at the crucial moments when everyone had wandered out of their depth. But this Sherlock, he threw everyone.  
The other officers were giving him a wide berth. Even confused looking Anderson couched his snide remarks and retreated to his cubicle. Sherlock kept checking his phone, and looking around hopelessly for he wasn’t sure what. Lestrade promised Mrs. Theroux that they were doing everything they could to find her son and hung up.  
He had pages of notes. Lestrade sighed and flipped back to first page of his legal pad.  
Sherlock had met Bennett Theroux ten months ago. It was almost too much to wrap his brain around, the idea of Sherlock having a one-nighter. And someone putting up with him long enough to date, to have a relationship, well. He wondered if John knew about this Ben person. He, like most of the London police force and John Watson’s dedicated readers had assumed that John Watson was Sherlock’s person. And of course Sherlock himself had insisted, almost to much, that it wasn’t a relationship at all. He’d kept using the word arrangement. Said that they were just acquaintances with benefits. But still. Moriarty had made it clear that this was personal. From the beginning his singular goal was to go after the few things that Sherlock held dear so why..? He could go in circles like that for hours. And Sherlock wasn’t exactly the most reliable source at that moment, anyway.  
They would suss out the dynamics later. What he needed was to fill in the gaps of his timeline, specifically the beginning, the starting place, the last place the Theroux had been seen. He’d of course asked Sherlock. But he’d given a non answer and asked if they could take a break, a request so uncharacteristic that it worried him deeply. There was no time to push that issue either. So instead Lestrade dispatched officers to the restaurant and the apartment. With any luck they might get some information from a coworker or nosey neighbour. He remembered what Moriarty had said on the tape. ‘Good old fashioned Cops and Robber’. He looked back out at Sherlock. Someone had brought him a cup of coffee and he was staring into it like a void, eyes completely glazed over. Lestrade sighed. ‘Trust the system,’ he told himself. It was going to be a long day.


	4. Chapter 4

_“Just shut up, will you?”_

_Ben scoffed. “Are you really telling the person that just sucked your cock to shut up?”_

_“If you don’t like it tell me to leave. That’s the arrangement, remember?”_

_Ben smirked and pressed one more kiss to the center of his chest. They were in Ben’s bed again. Sherlock’s eyes were closed. But he could feel him sitting up, reaching over him for his cigarettes on the nightstand, heard the click crackle of his lighter. Ben had been saying something about ‘did he want to go get something to eat’? ‘When were they going to do this at his place?' 'Did he want to see some show or movie?' These questions had become a frequent thing and Sherlock had resolved to tune them out._

_“It’s a bit late for that,” said Ben, exhaling a puff of smoke. “It’s been what, three moths? That’s longer than I was with my last boyfriend. You're cranky, but fun. Why stop now?”_

_“I’m not you’re boyfriend,” Sherlock pulled in a deep breath of the nicotine tinged air and told himself that he didn’t want one, really he didn’t. “Your accent is annoying,” he snapped. “Just shu-”_

_“Liar. Say shut up again and I’ll bite you.”_

_“God, you Americans! Have you ever listened to yourself?”_

_“Yeah. And I’ve see you blush and go googly eyed when I call you Boy or Hun or Babe or Come’er.”_

_Sherlock did. And something disgusting and involuntary and Pavlovian made Sherlock sit up and inch closer so they were shoulder to shoulder. Ben didn’t bother to hide the snide grin that spread across his face. Sherlock cut him off with a kiss before he had the chance to gloat._

_“In America we call that ‘whipped’.”_

_“Shut up.”_

_Ben caught his bottom lip between his teeth. “You love it.”_

_“Shut up.”_


	5. Chapter 5

“Sherlock?”  
Lestrade shook him by the shoulder. Nothing.  
“Let me.” John took the seat across from him.“Sherlock? Sherlock, look at me.”  
It seemed like the entire room was holding it’s breath. He'd been like this, on the edge of comatose and staring into nothing for almost ten minutes. And when he finally blinked up at them there was a collective sigh of relief. John put his hands on his shoulders, holding him at arms length. Sherlock looked ready to start throwing punches or burst into tears. They just weren’t sure which.  
“What?” He looked from John to Lestrade and back again. “What are you doing here. Why aren’t you-?”  
John held up a hand to stop him. “Just calm down. We’ve got another video. We didn’t want to watch it without you.”  
John had found the envelope in the back of his cab, plain brown paper with instructions to deliver the package to Lestrade. Inside there was a white DVD with “For Your Eyes Only” printed on the face. He read it again. And a third time.  
“John, can I speak to you?”  
“After-”  
“Now.” He snatched John up by the elbow and dragged him into his office.  
“What the-?”  
“Keep your voice down.” Lestrade closed the door behind them and pulled down the blind. “What’s on this disk, I don’t think he’s supposed to see it.”  
“Why not?”  
Lestrade shoved the DVD into his hands. “You saw the first one, right? He’s not be involved. That was explicitly clear.”  
Lestrade cut off suddenly.  
“You hear that?”  
John nodded. It was like a ringing in his ear, like that shrill buzzing that came just after firing a gun but it was building, getting louder. The phone on his desk began to ring and at the same moment there was a knock on the door. Lestrade wrenched it open to find a distraught looking Anderson on the other side  
“What the hell is that noise?”  
 It was every phone in the building going off at the same time, every line flashing red. His staff was running frantic trying to catch every call. Even the damned fax machine was making choked garbled noise and churning out pages from god knew where.  
Anderson nearly had to shout over the din. “Both videos have hit the web. All the major news outlets have picked up the story. The whole things gone viral. It’s trending on twitter.”  
 “Twitter?”  
John intervened. “It’s a social network. People posting what they're doing in real time."  
"And the video is all over," said Anderson. "Every one is talking about it and apparently everyone... Well, everyone wants to help.”  
“Why?”  
“At the end of the video Moriarty proposes that it’s like a game. The video has clues on how to find the kid. He’s promising some sort of prize...”  
“That’s sick.”  
If possible, it seemed to be getting worse, rising in volume. Cell phones were going off now, a cacophony of electronic melodies and bad distorted pop songs.  
“And now,” Lestrade snapped,“The entire Internet is calling to offer their help?”  
“Hey, I just met you. And this is crazy. So here’s my number...”  
“Looks that way. Sorry,” A pink faced Anderson fished his black berry from his jacket and switched it off. “No one’s sure what to do. They’re waiting for orders, sir.”  
Lestrade’s iphone began buzzing in his pocket.  
“So the whole of the bloody world has seen whatever is on that disk," said John, "And you want to keep the one person that can actually do something with it from seeing -”  
“That’s the point.”  
Sherlock’s voice was like a whisper beneath all the noise.  
“He’s messing with me.” Sherlock fished his phone out of his pocket and shoved it at Lestrade. “You heard him. I have to 'sit this out.'”  
“But how would he know,” John cut in. “If you saw the video or if you were involved how would he know the difference.”  
“That doesn’t matter. It’s what he wants. So we’re going to give it to him.” He turned back to Lestrade. “Your interrogation rooms, they have cameras?”  
“Of course.”  
“Good. You need to lock me in one of them.”


	6. Chapter 6

  
_“So," Ben gave him a side long smile, "your job, how does that work?”_  
 _“This isn’t the way back to your apartment.”_  
 _It had still been dark when Sherlock knocked on his door. He'd taken to showing up whenever the mood struck him. On a few occasions, mostly two or three am visits on days he had to work, Ben had acted mad. But he'd never turned Sherlock away. Except this time Ben had been on his way out._  
 _“There’s this bakery a few blocks over,” he’d said. “I go there for breakfast on my days off.”_  
 _He could have pouted over Ben’s unwillingness to rearrange his habits for him but instead Sherlock had acquiesced  and took him up on the offer to go along. Now he was beginning to regret it. The sun was just coming up, turning everything a muted shade of pink and gray. They had a paper sack full of donuts and paper cups full of coffee and they were supposedly walking back to Ben’s place. But Sherlock was pretty sure, no definitely sure, that they’d strayed from their intended destination._  
 _“It’s the scenic route. Tell me about what you do.”_  
 _“Scenic?” Sherlock scrunched up his nose. Winter was coming to a close. All that picturesque snow had turned to black sludge and made the whole city look more grime covered and unkempt than usual. “I told you. Consulting Detective.”_  
 _Ben nodded his approval. “Well then I must say, you’re a bit, you know, pretty for a police officer.”_  
 _“I’m not police,” Sherlock huffed. “I’m an independent contractor.”_  
 _"So you're Sherlock Holmes, Private I? Please tell me it say that on your business card."Ben giggled. "Do you take pictures of politicians having sex with people that aren't their wives?"_  
 _"No! And anyway, the arrangment was nothing personal, nothing-"_  
 _“It's work. That's not personal. Plus, I'm a 26 year old career waiter and my life is boring. So humor me.”_  
 _"I thought you had a Masters in writing?"_  
 _"Dont remind me." Ben wasn’t one to be deterred. And aparently Sherlock had chosen to learn this the hard way. “What makes you different than a regular detective?”_  
 _“I’m better.”_  
 _Ben snorted on his coffee. “Of course. I should have guessed that.”_  
 _“It’s true. Their have been psychological studies, book written on my methods.”_  
 _“I thought it was just that blog."_  
 _Sherlock groaned. “You know, I didn’t come over to chat.”_  
 _“I’m well aware.”_  
 _“So can we stop whatever this is and just go-”_  
 _“We are.”_  
 _“This is stupid.”_  
 _He sounded petulant, like a child. Ben bit back another laugh and Sherlock began to wonder why exactly it was that he spent so much time with people who were so often amused at his expense._  
 _“Ok, ok, methods. What is different about your methods?”_  
 _“Observation. Keen observation.”_  
 _“I don’t get it.”_  
 _“Of course you don’t.” Sherlock stopped dead and turned on him. “That little scar above your left eye. It’s not really big enough for anyone to notice. Not anyone who’s not really looking anyway. You’re still self conscious about it though, otherwise you wouldn’t cover it with the dramatic hair part to the side. It's from a fall, into gravel. Basalt. There's a small piece still lodged in your knee beneath another scar, three more in the heels of your hands to match. You were about eight judging by the angle. You weren’t a tall child. Someone pushed you, maybe from some stairs or a garden wall. The person that pushed you, maybe a cousin or sibling is dead, because there’s no resentment in your expression. Just...” He let a out a shuddering breath. “Sadness. You look sad.”_  
 _"Nothing personal, huh?"_ _Ben stepped around him and set off down the street, didn't even look back. And Sherlock had to sprint to catch up._  
 _“So,” he bit out. “People really pay you to do that little trick?”_  
 _“It’s not a trick. I can, I... Notice things other people don’t.”_  
 _“My brother. He died in a car crash a few years later.”_  
 _“I’m sorry.”_  
 _“No you’re not.” They’d finally made it back to Ben’s building.  "Why would you want to do something like that? To know everything about about every one? All the time?"_  
 _"I don't know everything. It's just... Making connections."_  
 _"That sounds fucking exhausting."_  
 _Sherlock's silence was neither a confirmation or a denial. And it streched out between them, the gap widening to the point where Sherlock selfishly feared that he'd really ruined his chances this time, once and for all. Then Ben leaned close like he was going to kiss him, but didn't._  
 _"You're going to make that up to me," he whispered._  
 _"I know."_


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The internet is for porn and fan-dom and in this case, gets in the way of police business.

First there were break-ins. Nearly a hundred of them in the first hour. People busting into other people’s houses and businesses, mostly kicking in basement windows because they thought, maybe, it kind of looked like the place in the video where they were keeping that guy?

Lestrade was amazed by the variety of them. Kids, boys and girls with ages ending in teen. Mostly the suburban type who had glasses and scrawny limbs that couldn’t carry them fast enough to run away from the cops. But that wasn’t so unexpected. What astonished him was the grown men and women. Business people. Laborers. One 40’ish woman, a cashier at some market, lept across the conveyor and tackled a short slim man who happened to be wearing a very nice suit. A man, 30, lost his daughter in a park because he thought he saw the bloodied man from the Internet walking down the street and decided to tail him. Not a single one of them had any real sense of what they’d done wrong. It was just a game, they protested. They just thought they would win the money and the island. They just thought...

That’s what Moriarty was offering. Five-million and an actual private island, an offer so absurd that he thought, surely, any person with sense would know better than to really believe it. And Lestrade could actually hear Sherlock’s voice in his head, “Never under estimate the power of stupid people.”

After that it was angry calls. First the good people of the transit department. Not long after there were voice mails from higher paid officials, national security and so on. Government departments so far up Lestrade had never heard of them. Countless hackers with IP addresses in twenty countries had cut their way in to the CCTV. Even a representative of Siemans LLC called him. It was their system, after all. Could he please release a statement telling them to all cut it out. Kids knocking down their firewall? That was just bad for business.

We are investigating the video. We are not panning to make any statements to the press right now. Thank you for your patience. Have a good day. Good bye.

And oh, the press. It was on every network, running over and over. Experts were brought on to do frame by frame analysis, live at 9. Talking heads debated with other talking heads about the videos authenticity. Frantic pretty news casters with motionless hair gave minute by minute updates even thought nothing had really changed. Some religious pundit even managed to get their two cents in on the matter. Was it a publicity stunt? Gorilla marketing? A movie trailer? Terrorists? Was it real? No, it couldn’t be real. And who was the beat up man in the chair? More importantly, who was the man talking to the camera?

There were theories abound. One man called into the tip line to tell them he was sure he’d seen them both in a Crash Pad video. Lestrade had never heard of Crash Pad. An elderly woman had commissioned her grandson ("he’s just so good with the technology") to send them comparative photos, via email, of Theroux and an actor from one of her day time stories. And apparently the public had divided into factions, #TeamThinMan & #TeamHostage. Women and men wanted to know, who were they? Where they single? What did they look for in an ideal mate? People were making memes.

It was almost noon when Lestrade collapsed at his desk. It had been a gauntlet of idiots and bogus tips and the day was only half over. Sitting there, waiting for his computer to boot was his first breather in almost five hours. Lestrade opened the video player and the live feed from the interrogation room.

Per his request, they had locked Sherlock in. And there he was, right where Lestrade had left him, slumped over the table, head laid on his crossed arms. Someone might have thought they were looking at a photo if Sherlock didn’t blink occasionally. But he’d insisted on it, and even double checked to make sure the room was equipped with video and sound.

“This way Moriarty will know I’m playing my role,” He’s said. “He’ll know I’m staying put, not interfering.”

Out of habit Anderson had jumped in correct him. “But this is a closed feed. Just cause there’s a camera on you doesn’t mean he’ll be watching.”

Sherlock had almost smiled. “Yes it does.”

Lestrade hadn’t even watched the second video yet. It was still sitting his desk with the now ridiculous caption marker-ed on the face. “For Your Eyes Only.”

Any other time, Lestrade thought, he might have found it funny.

He slipped the disk in to his machine and hit play.


	8. Chapter 8

_Sherlock eyed his phone a long time before finally picking it up. He typed out the message, “Can I come over tonight?”, and it felt like a defeat. It was Ben’s new rule. The ‘turning up whenever and wherever you're horny thing’ had to stop. That meant no more showing up at the restaurant and he had to give at least two hours notice before going over to Ben’s apartment. Sherlock let out an indignant huff, set the phone aside and did not stare expectantly at the opalescent screen._   
_John was gone, vising his sister. There weren't cases coming in, not any worth his while anyway. Sherlock had been wearing the same pajamas for two days and he was bored. Even with the steady stream of trash babbling from the TV set the too quiet apartment was becoming irksome. Ben seemed like as good a remedy as anything else. And usually he was one to reply to texts right away. But it seemed to take longer this time, almost four minutes._   
_Then his phone chimed. Sherlock made himself wait, counted to five, and opened the message._   
_“Not tonight.”_   
_Sherlock frowned. “Why?” Send._   
_Another few minutes passed. And then, ping. “I’m busy. Don’t be nebby. It’s not attractive.”_   
_“What the hell does ‘nebby’ mean?”_   
_“Nosey, Sherlock. It means nosey.”_   
_“What are you doing?”_   
_“Going out.”_   
_“Out where?”_   
_“I don’t know where. It’s my b-day. Some friends are taking me to a club.”_   
_“What friends?”_   
_“I have friends, Sherlock.”_   
_“Why didn’t you tell me it was your birthday?”_   
_“I didn't think you would care."_

_"It would probably be boring anyway."_

_He wasn't even sure why but Sherlock hit send. Five. Ten. Fifteen minutes passed. And Ben didn't respond._

_Fine. Whatever. Sherlock stared back at the TV and did not pout or feel bad that Ben hadn't bothered to invite him. A commercial for some sort of cleaning product came on and Sherlock wondered briefly if he should get him something?_   
_No._   
_He’d better not._

_Sherlock rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling. Maybe having the apartment to himself came with certain advantages he thought and slid his splayed fingers down over his chest. Sherlock closed his eyes and almost lazily stroked his cock through the thin flannel pajamas. And he did not think about Be **n.**_


	9. Chapter 9

“Really? That’s it?

Lestrade made a resolution then an there. When this was over he was done with the Internet. Or at least cutting back, anyway. Theoretically he had lived in a time when the Internet didn’t exist, wasn’t even a thought in some one’s head. He’d done it before. He could do it again.

The video took a long minute to buffer. Then fade in: Moriarty, a back lit silhouette, wearing an actual fucking Dear Stalker and monologuing about a game, a mystery, and one and all were invited to play, to flex their deductive muscles and there would be a prize and on and one for almost seven minutes before finally getting to the all important clue.

 _Follow the cat_.

I was printed in big drippy garish looking letters that flashed and spun. Then there was a cat that looked like a pastry bouncing around is screen and music that gave him a head ache. And those words again,

_Follow the cat._

“Follow the cat,” he echoed and gaped at his computer screen. “Follow the god damn cat.”


	10. Chapter 10

_“What the hell is that?”_

_The ‘That’ in question was a large greying creature with a squash face and green eyes. It was perched impossibly on the edge of  Ben’s bathroom sink and eyeing Sherlock with an heir of suspicion._

_“That is a cat, Sherlock.”_

_Maybe it was because he was naked. But something about it’s narrowed gaze and flattened ears made him nervous._   
_This wasn’t going the way he’d planned. Ben had opened his door, taken one look at Sherlock and said ‘Bath. Now. No arguing.’ Despite the fact that he hadn’t taken a bath in an actual bathtub since childhood and he found them, on a certain level, morally objectionable because of climate change and water waste, Sherlock had lost the energy to be obstinate, and did as he was told._

_“Since when do you have a cat?”_

_“He showed up outside the restaurant a few weeks ago. I put up posters but no one’s called to claim him.”_

_He pressed a soap lathered wash cloth to a scrape on his cheek. Sherlock hissed and squirmed away._

_Ben grabbed his chin and dragged him back.“Don’t be such a baby.”_

_“So what, you’re just keeping it? It could have a disease or something.”_

_“‘It’s’ name is Joe. And quit changing the subject. What happened?”_

_“Nothing. What kind of name is Joe? Aren’t cat’s supposed to be called things like Fluffy or Spot? I’m fine.”_

_“Yeah. You totally look like the picture of fine.”_

_Sherlock, in fact, did not look like the picture of fine. There was a bloody red scrape running along his hair line. His hands were cut and bruised. There was a throbbing in his ribs but he thought they probably weren’t broken. He wasn’t really sure. He didn’t really care._

_“It’s not as bad as it looks.”_

_“Yes, yes it is,” he said, and pushed the mop of curls away from Sherlock’s forehead to get at the jagged cut underneath. “Plus you dragged me out of bed at 3am. So the very least you could do is tell me a story.”_

_Sherlock pouted._

_“Does the other guy look worse?”_

_“He got away.”_

_“Oh...” Ben rinsed out the rag and set to clean the dirt filled scrapes on his palms. “What did he do?”_

_“He killed these women. Seven of them.”_

_“God."_

_“I almost had him.” Sherlock sighed. “I actually had my hands on him and then he was just gone...”_

_“But you still haven’t answered my question.”_

_“I told you-”_

_“You told me about a guy that kills women. That doesn’t explain why you look like someone mopped the floor with you. Were you in a fight or- hold still. This’ll sting.”_

_“There was no fight,”_ _Sherlock bit out. Ben pulled what looked like a shard of windshield glass from his palm._

_“Then what?”_   
_“We were chasing after him, the killer. There was traffic and I got clipped by this taxi.”_   
_Ben groaned. “See, you might have started with that. I would have dragged you to the hospital instead. I really think your hands need stitches.”_   
_“I saw a paramedic at the scene.”_

_“And they didn’t try to take you in?"_

_Sherlock shook his head. “There was another officer. He got pulled under this delivery truck and... They were trying. But it was too late. And I just needed to not be there...”_

_It came tumbling out before he realized what he was saying. Even Sherlock was a little surprised by the flat sound of his own voice._

_“What the hell, Sherlock?”_

_“I’m fine.”_

_“You saw someone die.”Ben pushed the damp curls away from his face. “I don’t even know what to say. I just... I’m sorry.”_

_Sherlock leaned forward to kiss him and Ben pulled away. It hurt. But Sherlock knew he deserved it. In all honesty he was still a little baffled that Ben had even opened the door. It had been three weeks or so since he stopped taking Ben’s calls. And Sherlock had been prepared to just let it go. Delete Ben’s number from his phone. Wipe the whole thing from his memory. Make more room on the hard drive. Fill the space with something new and never see Ben again. But now, here he was._

_“I missed you,” he whispered._

_Ben responded with a noncommittal noise. “I figured you’d just gotten bored with me.”_

_“I’m sorry. I’m sorry about what I said, and disappearing and everything...”_

_Ben’s gave him a suspicious look that was shockingly similar to the cats. “How hard did you hit your head?”_

_Sherlock grabbed a handful of his shirt and hauled him close. “Hard enough, apparently.”_


	11. Chapter 11

John was actually the one who figured it out.  
He’d quite literally burst through Lestrade's office door.  
“I’ve got it. Look at this.”  
He thrust his iphone under his nose. On the screen there was one of the crime scene photo from Theroux’s apartment.  
The place had been thrashed. Obviously some sort of fight had occurred. Bloody fingerprints clung to door frames. Bits of plaster had been kicked in. Pictures were torn from the wall. But it was more than that. Like destruction for the sake of destruction. Every piece of furniture was up ended. All the mirrors had been smashed. Everything had been pulled from the closets and cupboards. But still, there was nothing in the photo that stood out. Just the odds and ends of someone’s life strewn across the floor.  
“What exactly am I looking at?”  
“Cat food bag.”  
“You’re joking.”  
“No.” And look at this. He grabbed Lestrade’s laptop, turned it around and started typing. “When I did my residency I had this nutter ask me about this thing called chipping. You do it with pets. Wanted to know the health risks of doing it to her kid.”  
“You’re joking.”  
“Nope.” He turned the laptop around.  
It was a website for pet chipping. Implant a microchip in your pet and if they get lost you could locate them with their GPS software.  
“You have to set it up through a vet and there are only three veterinarians in London that offer it. We just tell them to search their customer database. How hard could it be.”  
They of course regretted that estimation later when they’d called all three veterinary offices and turned up nothing under Theroux’s name or the name of the cat. They’d had to ask Sherlock for that and it had looked physically painful for him. Not the answering part, but the not asking, like it took every fiber of his being not to start espousing theories. He said tightly that there was a picture of Ben and the cat on his cell, the one where he was sleeping, asked them not to delete it and could they leave him alone now, please? That didn’t turn up anything either. But ‘Moriarty, J’ did.  
The software was actually kind of neat and though it had seemed borderline insane that a person might want to inject a chip like this into a child Lestrade thought it would be rather handy in certain situations. Like oh, say, now. It could pinpoint the location of the implant-ee down to a square block. Part of him knew better. But he hoped that the location of the cat would also be the location of the boy and they could all be home in time for dinner. Only problem was that that the cat appeared to be moving.


	12. Chapter 12

"Sherlock?"

 

_Sherlock let his eyes fall closed._  
 _If he splayed his finger just right he could cup Ben’s hips and steeple his thumbs over his stomach. And if he pressed just a little, just right, he could feel every rise and fall, every clench and shift of muscle as Ben opened for him. He felt Ben’s breath catch as he rocked forward, slow and sweet but not quite enough._  
 _Ben clutched at his hands. Covered them with his own. Said, “Hey, stay with me.”_  
 _He took a ragged breath._  
 _Ben arched up, pressing against him, taking him deeper. Said,“Please, just...”_  
 _Sherlock gasped and shuddered._  
 _“Just look at me.”_  
 _He ran his fingers along the hollow of  Sherlock’s chest._  
 _“Do I have to beg?_ _I will”_  
 _In the early pink red light Ben’s eyes seemed more gray than green. His hair was morning tangled, sticking out at odd directions and he was biting his bottom lip, which was a little rouged and well kissed.Sherlock blinked down at him, forced his eyes to focus._  
 _“Just stay with me, yeah?”_  
 _Sherlock nodded. “Yeah.”_  
 _Ben gave him a kind of half lidded smile and pulled Sherlock down to kiss him. There was something else in that look, too. Something overwhelming. Something that was hard to look at. But if he didn’t, if he closed his eyes against it Ben called his name, called him back every time._  
 _“Stay with me.”_

  
He woke with a jolt. There was a knock on the door. And that wasn’t Ben saying his name. And he wasn’t in Ben’s darkened room. Sherlock felt a flash of embarasment creep hot up his cheeks, screwed his eyes shut tight and when he opened them again the hard gray brick wall was all that stared back. The metal table was cool against his cheek. It wasn’t right, he thought. Thinking of him that way, in this place. Not so much inappropriate as unworthy. Or maybe it was him. Sherlock shook his head.  
There was another knock on the door.    
“You awake?”  
That was John’s voice. “Yeah?”  
“Well it’s a funny thing,” said John, backing the door open. “I asked Lestrade, but it seems that there’s no real policy for dealing with animals that are also evidence that also belong to people, so...”  
“Christ, what the hell did you do to it?”


	13. Chapter 13

Turns out there was an app for finding lost pets.

Joe, the cat, who was at first only indicated by the red blipping dot on his phone had led them on quite a chase. The pet finding software was precise but not that precise. And surprisingly, or maybe not, there were a lot of cats roaming the streets of London. Cats who looked indistinguishable from one another, especially when covered in dirt matted fur. Cats, that they found, had passed from skittish, starved, shyness to self preserving aggression. Cats that would leave bloody scratches up your arm if you reached under a skip to try and grab it. John said they were all going to need rabies shots at the end of the day and Lestrade laughed. But it wasn’t really a joke. After over an hour and a half of fruitless, catless searching he was ready to give up. Then, mercifully, the red blip stopped moving.

Lestrade turned the corner to find a troupe of teenagers, four  boys and one teenaged girl, who was trying very hard to look like a boy. One of them had the cat pinned to the lid of a metal trash bin. Another had a pen knife in hand and was poking curiously at the cat's scruff.

“Police! Don’t move!”

The kids startled and some of them took off down the other end of the alley, where there was already a car waiting to corral them.

The boy holding the cat said “Bollocks!”

The girl, who had stayed behind shouted, “We found it first, you can’t have it!”

He cringed at the thought that these were the minds that had apparently bested his whole department and beat him to the punch. All five were minors and required extra paperwork plus calls to the parents. Because more tedium and tail chasing was what their day needed.

Thing was, once they had the cat they weren’t really sure what to do with it. It was just a cat. A cat with a bad attitude in fact. Nearly took chunks out of both him and John. But nothing distinguishing. Nothing helpful, at least not on the surface. With no other place to put it they’d locked the thing in his office. And that was when it occurred to him. What if the kids had been on to something?

So they took Joe the cat to St. Bartholomew's. And while a confused looking technician took the cat for xrays Molly made it clear that she did not approve of this plan.

“I cut open dead people,” she protested. “Not live animals. I mean, we don’t even keep anestesia here. The people coming through don’t exactly need it. And he’s so cute. And what if I-”

The xrays showed a small black chip. Inserted just above the cat’s shoulder. So on this day she did cut live things. Now the cat had a fresh incision pulled together with black stitches and a plastic cone affixed around it’s neck to keep it from tearing them open. And the chip, well it was much more than a chip. It also contained a nominal amount of data.

“The drive is encrypted,” said John. “Lestrade has his people on it now.”

“Don’t tell me that.”

The cat had been all hissing spitting tooth and nail since they got their hands on it. John had helped bandage three officers with bites and scratches of varying severity. But animal went straight to Sherlock. Jumped into his lap. Huddled against his chest. Sherlock lifted the animal to eye level .  

“I’m sorry,” he said. And for a long silent moment John wondered which of them Sherlock was speaking to.  “Now please leave."    

 


	14. Chapter 14

_After the wreck he stayed in Ben’s bed for two whole days._

_“Do you need me to stay? I can call in,” said Ben. He was halfway into his work uniform and his voice was bubbling with panic just below the surface._

_“And do what? Fuss over me like an invalid?” It came out snappish and Sherlock immediately regretted it. “I just mean that... there’s no sense in it. Unless you’re interested in watching me sleep for another eight hours. I'm just tired. Really.”_

_Ben smiled._

_When they’d crawled into bed early that morning he’d felt alright. Good, even. He’d fallen asleep with his head on Ben’s chest and Ben’s fingers in his hair. But when he woke later in the afternoon he’d felt full of fog and his body ached; not just physically but deep down at the base of his skull and in the hollow of his chest._

_“Ok,” he sighed. “Ok.” Ben stepped up to the mirror to do up his shirt and tie. “Open the drawer on the bed side table. The one on my side.”_

_They had sides. Sherlock pushed this out of his mind, threw himself across the bed and yanked the drawer open. There were the usual things. A book. A food wrapper. A magazine with a shirtless man on the cover. “What am I looking for?”_

_“There’s a bottle of vicodin.”_

_Sherlock found it easily, under the magazine and a box of condoms._

_“Feel free to take one, you know, if the pain is bad or to help you sleep or...”_

_Sherlock held the bottle between his thumb and forefinger, away from his chest, like it might bite him. “I don’t think so,” he said, gravely._

_“Alright,” Ben laughed and sat down beside him to lace up his shoes. “Then you know it’s there if you need to-”_

_“No.” Sherlock shoved the bottle at him. “Actually, if you could take them with you I would greatly appreciate it.”_

_“Oh.” Ben fixed him with a hard stare. And then something passed across his face. Like a shadow. Thoughts turning over. Connections made. “Ooh...” Ben took the pills and shoved them in his pocket. “You never said... Well, I guess. you wouldn’t . It would go against... Never mind.”_

_Ben started to go but Sherlock pulled him back, pulled him down by his tie for a kiss._

_“So what was it?”_

_“Heroin.”_

_Ben sighed. “I figured. I used to know a guy...”_

_“It’s been a very long time. But I’m having a bad day.”_

_“Say no more.” Ben smiled and went back to getting ready for work. Straightened his tie. Combed his hair, which Sherlock had mussed, and went out of the bedroom to gather his coat and bag.“I can bring back dinner from the restaurant. Anything in particular you want?”_

_Joe, the cat, sprung up onto the bed and approached Sherlock cautiously, like it was making up its mind about whether to attack or be afraid. Ben was the only person he knew that would bring home a strange cat. And the only person who could ever segway a conversation from addiction to dinner without batting an eye. And this fact caused a sudden warmth to bloom in his chest, pushing away the fog and pain just a little. The cat pressed it’s nose into Sherlock’s hand. He scratched behind the things ears and it let out a soft rumbling purr._

_*Click*_

_Ben was leaning in the doorway with his iphone in hand. “Cute. That’s one is definitely going on Facebook.” Before Sherlock could protest Ben was kissing him goodbye._

 


End file.
